The Winter Solstice
by Posey Lee
Summary: It’s just like they say: nothing like the winter to bring up the temperature. Draco and Hermione. WIP.
1. Broken Beads

The Winter Solstice 

By Meruna

Disclaimer: Don't own the wizarding world or any of its living/non-living contents, thank you.

**A/N: **It would only proper to tell you that this fic will be totally disregarding the sixth book. And, to be honest, this fic is also a bit on the side of pointless. But pointlessness and honesty aside, I do hope you enjoy – and enjoy it enough to review!

**A Draco and Hermione Fanfiction.**

**I. Broken Beads**

It was winter already. The weather was at its prime, fluctuating between snowfalls and blizzards. At the first snow of the year, Hogwarts students were thrilled. During the summer holiday it'd rained, and proving the climate's defiance towards the weathermen, not only did it rain – it rained relentlessly. Gardens were ruined with the vicious downpour while adolescents remained imprisoned inside their homes, looking solemnly out at the insistently dribbled streets, waiting for the clouds to finally drain themselves of the vindictive water.

So it was a relief for snow, even if snow was just frozen rain. But after the pleasantries of nature's soft white blankets and friendly snowball fights (and some not quite so friendly), the weather revealed its rebelliousness once again. Hogwarts castle was thrashed with an outstanding series of snowstorms and blizzards. It created inches of frost on the windows that precluded the possibility of any beam of natural light shining through. To say that Hogwarts was completely iced over would be the understatement of the century.

Thus, due to the sudden barrage of frigidness, many students were tackled by a vicious bout of influenza. Among them were Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, Jolene Fitzward, Romola Rollins, Pansy Parkinson, Colin Creevey and many others. The list was simply too extensive to go over thoroughly. It'd start out as a mere cold – sneezing, coughing fits, runny noses, the works. Then it escalated to record-breaking fevers, ear-infections and deliria. Soon, the hospital wing's beds were occupied with writhing, febrific young adults. Then, more kept coming even with Dumbledore's announcement of no more vacancies that Madam Pomfrey had to borrow another classroom, which Minerva McGonagall, their notorious Transfiguration teacher, had to help turn into another infirmary.

Now, Madam Pomfrey had always been capable of curing the flu within the blink of an eye. She'd been around for as long as they could remember and beyond, and thus knew just about every remedy for every sort of ailment. What also helped that every year they were required to stock up on serums, but this year chaos struck: The W.A.M.D.N.T.S. (Wizarding Association of Medical Distribution of Necessary Tonics and Serums) had received a limited amount of tonics from its suppliers and had quickly run out. At first the staff had figured it was not a massive deal, for they still had one of the best Potion masters in the country, Severus Snape. But unfortunately, all of the other schools thought so as well. Within twenty-four hours of the news, the ingredients for just about every possible flu-curing potion had been sucked dry from the shelves.

And so, to say Hogwarts was quite in a dilemma was an understatement.

Within a fortnight thirteen students had been hospitalized. Madam Pomfrey begun to succumb into temporary insanity for a while for it seemed there was an endless queue of ill students just waiting beyond those big oak doors. Students from every House and every year came in with scorching foreheads or pain in their ears or dangerous amounts of mucus blocking up their lungs or throat. People started to fear for their lives – and immune systems, which was certainly justified in anyone's opinion. It was like a sort of epidemic going around, and with Hogwarts seventy-eighth in the waiting list of the W.A.M.D.N.T.S., people had the right mind to cast immunity charms on themselves.

Though even those weren't a sure case anymore.

"Ron, don't you understand the graveness of this situation?" Hermione hissed as Ron sloppily chomped down on his third chocolate frog. "Here – eat an orange," she said, grabbing one from the bowl beside her and throwing it to him. "You need to build up your immune system."

"I'm just fine, Hermione," he said, having caught the orange that had been purposely aimed at his face. He looked at her with a begrudging expression, his oceanic eyes dark and scowling, setting down the fruit. "Us Weasleys were born with a strong immunity system, so don't you fret about that. Now leave me alone and let me eat." With that said, he took another noisy bite, then proceeded to wash it down with pumpkin juice.

"Does nothing get through to that brain of yours?" she asked. "_Ginny_ had a fever last night! Her temperature was a hundred nine!"

"Well, that's only because she's a girl," Ron shrugged.

"Ron," interjected Harry, "I don't think it matters if you're a girl or not."

"Harry's right," said Hermione. "Influenza does not seek its target based on gender, or skills, or family surnames, all right?" She picked up another orange and threw it at him, Ron letting out a yelp as it hit him square on the shoulder. "Why else do you think they've been placing out these fruit bowls?"

"I thought they were only out for display," he said, glaring at her, rubbing his shoulder blade. "Health week. And I wouldn't go around throwing fruit if I were you."

"If you're not going to eat it I might as well," snapped Hermione. Narrowing her eyes at him, she bit loudly into her apple, looking back down at her book with one final (and reciprocated) glower from Ron. Ron and Harry, their eyes flickering alarmingly behind Hermione, quickly ducked down their heads, pretending to be engrossed in their essays as Severus Snape swept by, writing nonsense on their papers to keep up the convincing pretense that they were actually doing something.

When the menacing figure of Snape had continued onto the other tables and they heard the low murmurs of his monotone threats in the distance, no doubt practicing his impeccable skill of handing out detentions (though why he had to practice was beyond Hermione – he'd already reached a perverse sort of proficiency in the ability) to a poor student three tables down, Hermione looked up from her book. Her eyes rested on fellow Gryffindor Parvati Patil a couple of seats down who was having a coughing fit. She watched as people beside her awkwardly fidgeted in their seats, scooting away, and Parvati hung her head, pressing a napkin tight against her mouth as her body convulsed with her hacks.

"I don't understand what's going on," whispered Hermione. "It's never been this awful before."

Harry nodded, putting down his quill. "It's as if someone released it out into the halls."

"But what if someone did?" Ron wondered aloud. "Think about it: who _really_ hates students enough to want them to die from natural illnesses? Filch? Snape? Although, my guess is, it couldn't possibly be the greasy-haired git. Natural illnesses would be too nice."

"Snape's also the one who's making the cures," added Hermione.

"Yes, but you do sense the urgency of the predicament the school's in. If he was sweating his bum off over a boiling cauldron to make those tonics, then how on _earth_ could the monster still have time to monitor study hall?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but closed it again. Her shoulders slumped. "You've a point," she admitted reluctantly.

"You're forgetting that we've run out of the ingredients needed for those serums," said Harry. "Hogwarts is simply just waiting around. Trying to keep the sicknesses at bay until we get new supplies."

"But this whole massive outbreak is almost terrifying unnatural," Hermione whispered, a currently subdued but growing panic in her voice. "How could—"

"Incoming," Ron interrupted hastily, his eyes somewhere to Hermione's far right. Hermione closed her mouth and the three of them quickly diverted their attentions to what they had in front of them; Hermione to her textbook and Arithmancy essay, and Ron and Harry to their _Beetle Wings Vs. Slug Entrails: Which Is More Effective In Potion-Making?_ Essay. Due to their sudden lapse into silence, her ears boomed with Parvati's coughs again as she glimpsed the girl's trembling figure from the corner of her eye. Then, Hermione's breath caught in her throat as suddenly with a voluminous flush of dark robes, the monstrous Severus Snape had hindered her view.

She could hear his snarling undertone just paces away.

"Patil, I advise you do something about that cough of yours," said an irritable Snape. "Wouldn't want you to be coughing up any of your miserable tonsils, now would we? Get up and go to the infirmary. I don't want you infecting anyone else. Go." There was a distracted and tense quiet as she could see Parvati fearfully staring up at him. "Now!" he barked, and she scampered up to her feet, gathering her things in meant urgency. She rapidly walked down the aisle as pairs of eyes followed after her, and when she began to cough again, she hurried into a run and slipped out the doors without a single moment to spare.

Snape looked at all of them, tense in their seats with their eyes glued to the doors, disdain clearly scrawled all over his sallow complexion.

"Well?" he said aloud, making all of them jump in their seats in surprise. Neville fell over the bench in all his shock, his papers and book falling all over his lap as he landed with a hard _thud_ on the floor. Hermione watched him with a look of sympathy as he noticeably winced. "What do you think this is? A show? Get to work now or the first person I see whose attention clearly needs redirecting will receive detention for a month." His upper lip shriveled upwards like a slowly roasting worm. "And ten points from Gryffindor for overexcitement," he said, sending a look of revulsion towards Neville, who flushed an unflattering shade of crimson in mortification. "Now, get to work, all of you."

Hermione heard a shuffle of footsteps and parchments as Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas helped Neville up, muttering to themselves about their feculent Potions master. Not quite catching their words (but indeed having enough wits about her to know they wouldn't be anywhere near pleasant), she simply let a soft sigh elude her lips, tilting her head heavenwards to the enchanted ceiling, where snow fell, but never reached her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Due to the intolerable weather, Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid was instead to be held in the Great Hall. Many objections arose about this controversial topic. Then again, Care of Magical Creatures had always been something if not controversial.

"Don' yeh worry," said Hagrid smilingly, where he then proceeded to tell them that all sanitary measures were to be always performed by a professional. There was a nervous tittering about the students now who looked almost nauseous as they stood in a cluster of black robes and light golden uniforms. Hermione saw many crinkled brows and quizzical expressions as she looked around with arms wound tightly across her chest, quite worried herself.

It seemed anything but a good idea to her. After all, this was where all of the students ate their meals three times a day. Though spells with a wand could be much more thorough than any house-elf work, the thought of furry, smelly beasts being brought into their dining room was a stomach-turning notion. She couldn't get over the image in her head of someone finding a fur ball in their stew, or a stringy piece of scraggly hair in their pudding. It was enough to make her whole body shudder.

"But animals are so _filthy_!" said a shrill voice somewhere in front of her. Hermione reckoned it had been a Slytherin girl. There was a surge of new murmurs that waved over her class as people exchanged disturbed looks. Hermione looked over at Harry and Ron, who were too busy looking exasperated with this entire mess. "And—and, we _eat_ here!" continued the girl.

Hagrid frowned at them, his beetle-dark eyes sad underneath his bushy eyebrows. He began to stutter – quite pathetically, though Hermione would never say so out loud – as he mentally scrounged around for another way to say that the Great Hall would be cleaned by a wand-owning individual with a soi-disant expertise in the area. Hermione, fed up with this discussion that was only intended to last a few minutes but had quickly transformed into a humiliating and overextended battle of the prissy germaphobics, sighed impatiently. Before Hagrid could stammer out another vowel, Hermione had spoken aloud, her thinning patience riding on her voice like a sharp winter draft.

"Would you leave the poor man alone?" Her voice was crystal clear as it crackled through the stick-straight spines of her peers. "How many times are you all going to make him repeat _that it's going to be magically and thoroughly cleaned by an expert_? Because he's been speaking in the same language as us for the past twenty minutes and the irony's not lost on me because it seems as if _you're_ the ones who can't understand simple English!"

But instead of scolding some good sense into their brains, Hermione caught the strong whiff of strengthening, crackling tension like the acrid smell of a rotting, carnivorous flower.

And then the crowd began to part like the Red Sea, and out swaggered their Moses: Draco Malfoy. Hermione simply rolled her eyes at him while she felt Harry and Ron protectively scoot closer to her.

"Look here, Granger," his pale face sneered. "Just because you're used to eating with the animal waste all over your food doesn't mean we are."

"Malfoy, with the wealthy foods you eat, I bet you don't even know _half_ of what they put in there," she retaliated, "so believe me when I say you should be the last person to say anything at all. You'll only be setting the trap to contradict yourself."

"Oh, Mudblood," he said, tilting his head, as if entertained with her. His malicious silver eyes sparkled. "How amusing you are. You talk so bold and possess such a gallant self-assurance, isn't that right?" His eyes flickered to Harry and Ron beside her, then returned, meeting her gaze. She almost felt frost form on the back of her neck as their gazes connected. He stepped closer, and Hermione didn't move. "If I were to catch you alone in the hall, I bet you couldn't even stutter out an excuse of a vowel like your little friend the oaf over there," he said spitefully. "Your bravado isn't fooling anyone, Granger. Just because you've got your two little bodyguards now doesn't mean they'll be around forever."

Suddenly, Ron stepped up, threateningly. His voice suppressed rage. "Leave her alone, you prick, or I'll break your neck."

"Yes, Weasley, but at least _I_ can buy another one."

"Only you'd be dim-witted enough to think that you can buy a new neck, Malfoy," hissed Hermione.

He smirked at her, an evil, guileful smirk. "You'd be surprised at just what you can buy, Mudblood. I wouldn't talk so surely about that."

Floor-rumbling footsteps caused the crowd to loosen and disperse, yet Hermione, Harry, Ron and Draco remained rooted to the floor. Hermione could feel the entirety of their animosity towards each other, all meshed into one. It caused goose bumps to peak all over her skin, pinching her tendons, stretching the skin tautly across her face.

"All righ', all righ', you four," said Hagrid gruffly. "Separate."

And although Hagrid had begun to lead them away from their adversary, Hermione didn't turn her back until Harry nudged her, and even then she felt the scalding traces of his smirk sizzling on her back.

"It's best if we just ignore him," she quietly reminded Harry and Ron as they paired up together again.

"Yes, and you did an exemplary job of doing that," snorted Ron.

"It wasn't my fault," she argued. "Didn't you see him? Being the prat that he is, I could have scorched his face off if I'd really said what was on my mind—"

"All right then, so we all know that it's easier said than done," said Harry, though Hermione could hear the iron wiring in his jaw. "Let's just get this done with, okay? We'll deal with Malfoy later. We don't want to get any of our eyebrows singed again. Baby dragons, Hermione, Ron – you remember how it is. If this one hatches before our chart says it's supposed to, then we're going to be carrying along a failing score for the rest of the term."

At the mention of the possibility of possessing a failing grade, Hermione sobered. They all looked at the glass cube Harry set down on the table, which they'd wisely made certain was all the way across the room from the Slytherins. Harry turned the lock and Hermione helped to lift the top off, and feeling the warm, smooth surface of the enchanted glass sent a torrent of pleasant tingles through her body. They all looked at the cushioned dragon egg for a moment. And as Harry and Ron began to casually talk again, carefully turning the egg over as was instructed, they felt the knots of tension in their shoulders and backs slowly begin to rub away as they slowly forgot about their encounter with the vile Slytherin.

But as Hermione inspected their chart, thoroughly checking over their solutions and the approximated time their egg was to hatch, she couldn't help but see Draco Malfoy's patronizing, smirking face staring right back at her again, as if all of the ink blots and numbers had gathered up to form the insufferable image of his face.

And when she blinked hard, convinced that she was going mad, it was gone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It seemed that even Harry's infamous scar couldn't ward away sickness, either, for two days later he had to be taken to the hospital wing for a very bad case of strep throat. At first Harry'd just insisted his throat was sore because they'd been quite rowdy in the boy's dormitory the night before (Fred and George had probably sent over one of their sample sweets again) and had done a fair amount of shouting due to bunk rivalry. But when it was clear it was beyond the matters of screaming one's vocal chords to temporary sabbatical, with Harry not being able to talk at all without tearing up and wallowing in deep pain, they'd sent him away.

Ron was quite miserable without Harry. Not only was he stuck with Hermione (though he did insist she was a peachy girl); it simply was just not the same. For one, Harry would let Ron copy his notes when he fell behind doodling stick figures and Quidditch plays on his parchments. Hermione did not. Harry also did not yell at Ron for wanting to copy assignments. Hermione did until his ears began to ring.

To make things worse, during Care of Magical Creatures, Ron had dropped the dragon egg on the table and produced an inch-long crack along the side, which Hagrid looked at them rather disappointedly for. Draco Malfoy had also had the nerve to stride along by with Crabbe and Goyle dawdling not too far behind, remarking something stupid about the health of Harry Potter. With Hermione already in a horrible mood, his little imperious statement had caused quite a temper flare-up and she would have rightly given him what he deserved (with her fists) had Ron not caught her in time and held her back.

"I can't believe this," Hermione fumed. "Weren't you always the one encouraging physical retaliation against Malfoy?" She was straightening herself out, brushing out her skirt over at the side Ron had pulled them to.

"It's different for you, Hermione," said Ron, almost regretfully. "You're a girl. He'd crush you. You've seen him at Quidditch. Besides, with Harry in the hospital wing, I don't think we should risk it. He could sic Millicent on you," he said with a pleading ginger brow and a shudder.

"I don't care," Hermione spat. "I could take Millicent."

Ron looked moon-struck for a second. Then he shook his head, chuckling. "No, you can't. Believe me, Hermione, you can't. _I_ can't even take Millicent. She's… neither male nor female. That's the worst of the lot you ever want to brawl with. You don't know where their vulnerabilities are."

She glowered at him, her hands planted on her waist. "All I've got to say is," she told him menacingly, "you'd better hope our dragon hatches right when it's supposed to. Because if it doesn't," she threatened, "I perfectly know where _your_ vulnerabilities are and I won't waste any time making _you_ feel sorry for your clumsiness." And then she brushed past him, her nose in the air.

Ron stared at where she had been standing for a moment, mulling over her words. Then he turned around, watching her as she closely inspected the crack on their egg again.

"Cruel woman," he muttered as he walked back, cautiously sitting very far away from her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Overnight, four more people had been sent to the infirmary. That summed up to twenty-three in the last two weeks. That was what, Hermione figured, propelled the announcement on Thursday morning during breakfast.

"I apologize for the interruption," said Dumbledore, who had almost been shoved up to the podium by a frizzy Madam Pomfrey. "But I ask for your attention for one short moment. As you know, there has been an outbreak of illnesses going around. We do not know the cause of this sudden upsurge, but we are investigating. Unfortunately, our supplies of tonics and serums have run out. We are on the waiting list for just about every medical distribution company, but the river is still at its driest. Severus Snape, our Potions master, has agreed to cooperate and attempt to figure out another way to cure the ill students.

"However," he said, "the numbers are not decreasing in our two infirmaries, and yes, are instead _in_creasing. Madam Pomfrey has requested an urgent need for a helper that will assist her in tending to her numerous patients. Now, in return of the student's special services, he or she will gain extra credit that can go towards any of their class scores."

Hermione's ears perked up as her eyes widened. "_Any_?" she whispered to herself, her mind suddenly skittering back to their dragon egg.

Albus Dumbledore only nodded and smiled, as if he had heard her. "The helper must be qualified, however, for the job. What is meant by qualified is that one must have proper grades and orderliness when dealing with people. The assistant can only be from the sixth or seventh-years" – many sighed in relief – "and will be needed during afternoons and evenings, including additional weekends. I trust many of you will sign up in an effort to help our school and your peers, and to do so; the sign-up sheet is in the hospital wing. Thank you for your attention."

Dumbledore walked back to the Staff table, soothingly patting Madam Pomfrey on the shoulder, who nodded in what seemed like massive relief. Stringy tendrils had eluded her nurse cap, which also hung quite haphazardly from her muddled hair. Her eyes were glossy as she sniffed and Hermione felt a slight pang of pity for the Medi-Witch. She could only imagine what sort of pressure she was under now. With no supplies at hand, it was enough to drive anyone barmy.

Hermione slowly turned back to her meal, absentmindedly stirring her tea and not taking a single sip until it had turned ice-cold and it was finally time to leave the Great Hall.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hermione shivered against her warm covers, staring up at the high-rise windows. Though there had been warmth charms cast all over this room, she could feel drafts from them sometimes – the ice from outside radiating inwards. She stared at the foggy and almost murky surface of the once shining pristine glass, now covered completely with snow and frost. There wasn't a single spot on the windows that had been left untouched by nature's brutal retribution. Except, calling it "retribution" would be foolish, wouldn't it? Hermione didn't know what they'd done to justify a full-fledged snowstorm that went on for days at a time, rested, and then came back up twice as strong. It was almost malicious the way the blizzard pounded on their windowpanes and blocked out the light.

Hermione could not sleep tonight, although it had been rather easy those other nights. Everyone had agreed sleeping was one wise way to escape – if not only for a few hours – from this frigid castle and its potentially harmful germs. But tonight, a first of many of the same nights ahead, her mind was preoccupied with the thought of signing up to be Madam Pomfrey's assistant.

Would it be wise? Would it be foolish? After all, she knew how to enact an immunity spell most effective and she ate right nowadays what with her daily servings of fruits and vegetables. It was not like Hermione to be ignorant to a serious issue that was _clearly_ not to be ignored. And so it was quite fine to say that she wasn't concerned about getting sick, which she knew was currently a rarity around these halls. And with Ron cracking their dragon egg, almost guaranteeing it to be a stillbirth or its hatching date to arrive far too early, causing defects, or perhaps maybe even allowing it to freeze to death with that sodding crack, Hermione was almost certain that they'd be failing that assignment. She couldn't bear to receive a failing score for anything, most especially if it wasn't even for _her_ wrongdoing in the first place!

She needed that extra credit so that her scores wouldn't take an immense plunge. At least if she were to put it towards her Care of Magical Creatures class, the blow wouldn't be as devastating.

She sighed, staring up at the ceiling before closing her eyes. She felt herself floating in the in-between for a while, a feeling she recognized as being caught right amid the soothing transition of consciousness and unconsciousness. She felt another weightless draft intrude their dormitory from one of the nearby windows and only slightly stirred as it inched its way up her body, causing her skin to lethargically hum in response.

But as she fell into a deep sleep, drifting away from her last latch of consciousness, she began to writhe in her bed, entangled in her sheets, her face slowly clenching in agony and pain. With a whirling, sickening sensation pounding in her skull, she sat up, drenched with cold sweat, breathing labored breaths. Her weary eyes were wide. She could hear the soft murmur of the snow outside. The blizzard had weakened.

She tiredly collapsed back onto her sheets, recalling her wild and ambiguous dream in bewilderment. She'd dreamt of broken shells, baby dragons hatching already dead, and the feverish faces of her peers. Then she remembered walking into a room. She'd even strangely dreamt of peering into a face – which face, she couldn't remember even when she tried her hardest to – and feeling an overwhelming swell of sadness. And then a deeper feeling, more morose and definite. Eternal.

At this inkling of memory, she felt a prick of fear in her chest.

Death.

**Please Review!** A short chapter, indeed. Please also excuse the possible grammar mistakes and typos. Though I do try to look over this at least a few times, this I post unbeta'd, so it will be nowhere near perfect. But that's okay. Because we don't live by Perfect, now, do we? I'll try my best to update soon.


	2. Ample Ailments

The Winter Solstice

**A/N:** All right, in this fic, Lucius Malfoy has not yet been dropped as one of the school's governors or gone to Azkaban. Just to clear that up. Thanks to the reviewers. :)

**II. Ample Ailments**

As Hermione walked down the corridor leading to the hospital wing, she wasn't surprised to see that it was completely vacant. But as she watched the rippling black of her robes glide fluidly across the newly polished marble floors, the dim torches glowing softly behind her, she felt a slightly panicked nervousness thread from the very top of her skull to around her stomach. She didn't know why she felt uneasy snarls twisting like yards of stubborn taffy inside of her, stretching and expanding to a point that it was almost nauseating, but she reckoned it was because of the knowledge that if she were to become Madam Pomfrey's assistant, her life would suddenly be plunged into a dramatic – even almost nonsensical – new level of urgency.

Hermione knew a thing or two about urgency. Being Harry Potter's best friend for the past five and a half years, urgency was something she'd experienced numerous times before. She, Harry and Ron had all had their noxious trips of gallantry and possessed battle scars to prove it. But the thing was that they'd endured it en masse – together. And judging from the tightening binds wound around her queasy stomach, she didn't know if she was used to facing it without Harry or Ron by her side, pretending to be plucky yet just as terrified as she was.

But she figured it couldn't be so hard, nor complex. After all, how hard could it possibly be? She'd faced many things before; she had a strong feeling being a nurse's assistant would be a breeze.

At least, she hoped so.

She grasped the brass knob of the infirmary's doors, feeling a tingle buzz up her arm from the cold metal, pulling it open. She quietly crept in and swallowed hard at the sight before her: an ailing body in each white hospital bed. The image was disturbing. She heard painful, dry coughs from three different locations in the wing and caught a glimpse of fiery red hair as she looked around. Hermione stared at Ginny Weasley for a moment, stopping in her step, feeling a pulsing knot of sympathy and concern for her friend. Her face was almost as pale as the colorless sheets she had bundled around her. Her limp titian tresses spread out across the pillow like a fan, her eyes shut as she slept peacefully, and Hermione felt heart give out a painful jerk.

Just then, the bustling Medi-Witch walked out of her office and called out to Hermione, startling her as she quickly looked towards the voice.

"Miss Granger!" said Madam Pomfrey. Hermione noticed that she had tidied herself up since yesterday. Her hair seemed washed from what she could see from underneath her cap, and her outfit was not creased or stained with several questionable substances. Her face even seemed calm, rested; yet Hermione could still see the franticness swirling around in her dark eyes like a subdued storm. "Are you here to sign up?" she asked, and Hermione heard pleading in her voice. Desperation radiated from the elderly woman like warm rays from the sun.

"Yes," Hermione croaked, nodding. "I… I am."

A hysterical look flashed across Madam Pomfrey's face for the quickest of seconds, almost as if relief had rushed through her so rapidly that her face didn't know how to aptly express it. It looked almost maniacal from where Hermione was standing; yet she was not fazed, as she was too busy comprehending just how deep in the monstrous puddle their Medi-Witch was. Awkward facial expressions would be the last thing on one's mind if they were tending to more than twenty fevered students without the terribly needed supplies.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed, which caused a few of her patients to stir in their beds. Catching herself, paling a bit with alarm, she composed herself. "It's nice to see you, Miss Granger," she said later, adjusting her voice to a more silent tone. "The sign-up sheet is in my office. I assume you know your way?"

Hermione nodded again as the nurse thanked her and went off to attend to a Hufflepuff, Jolene Fitzward, with a floating line of clinking bottles following after her. Hermione heard Madam Pomfrey inquire how she was doing in a soothing tone (which shocked Hermione a great deal – she was far too used to her sharp, nippy pitch), to which Jolene responded with a series of phlegm-induced hacks, her pasty face creasing in pain, glistening with perspiration. Madam Pomfrey simply held her shoulder, pressing a cloth to the student's mouth, looking as if she wanted to cry.

Hermione walked towards Madam Pomfrey's office, shutting the door neatly behind her. With an odd, tense feeling in her gut she looked around at all the silver trinkets and curios in her office – widgets and things that uncannily resembled nothing at all. She saw a few sentient pictures of what could have been the nurse's children or grandchildren, sprightly and rambunctious in their frames. She walked towards her desk, peering around for the sign-up sheet, and finally found it underneath a stone heart paperweight. Hermione steadily picked it up and scrounged around for a quill. When she finally found one, she dipped it into one of the nurse's inkbottles and wrote her name, year, and house.

Finishing up, she noticed that she had taken only the second spot on the sheet. Someone had written in the first, but it seemed hastily scribbled out, making the parchment bleed in the back, as if they had changed their mind at the very last minute. Hermione found herself frowning at the parchment, taking in the determined, engraved broad strokes that could have very nearly torn a hole into the paper. She thought it a cowardly and awful thing to do – why would anyone come all the way here, write down their information, and then madly scrawl it out in a spur of fear or selfishness? Sometimes she couldn't believe the enormity of her peers.

But as she brought the parchment up to her face, peering closely and squinting her eyes, she could almost make out the letters in the House section. She found the beginning three letters of Slytherin before the rest had been nastily blotted out. Hermione put the sheet down where she had found it, setting back the heart paperweight. She scowled to herself. "Slytherin," she scoffed as she neatly placed back the quill. "Figures."

She exited the infirmary, waving goodbye to Madam Pomfrey, with a strange feeling adrift within her. Suddenly, she felt her uneasiness disintegrate. She found herself smiling as she walked down the corridor to the Great Hall, lightness in her heart and a righteous jubilance warmly filling her stomach. It felt good to have such benevolence. Why, she even felt rather noble and discovered that she was quite giddy about it.

She immediately spotted Ron sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, already keenly engaged into some conversation with Seamus, who was sitting directly across from him. Hermione took the vacant seat neat to him, grabbing a muffin from one of the silver trays, as well as an entire stem of grapes.

Ron, who surprisingly did not have anything stuffed in his mouth, greeted her. "Morning, Hermione. What took you so long? I thought you'd fallen asleep in the library again," he said, taking a sloppy bite of his bacon.

"I went to the infirmary," Hermione replied breezily. After years of having to endure her meals with him, she was beyond getting annoyed at Ronald's lack of self-control at the table. Uncannily, she'd grown used to it. Otherwise, if she hadn't, she would have already probably been institutionalized.

Ron froze. "What do you – you don't mean you actually signed up for that assistant thing, do you?" His blue eyes were large, almost pooling her in his bewilderment.

Hermione was perturbed by his reaction. "Why, yes, I do," she said, popping one grape into her mouth. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" she said, one of her brows twitching up at him in a menacing manner. "I'm just trying to help out my school."

"It's just… I never thought that…" he muttered to himself as he began to play with his eggs. Hermione peered curiously down at his plate, her eyes flickering from his expression to his motions. His eggs were almost runny now from all his butchering.

"What's going on?" asked Hermione pointedly.

"Nothing," he sighed, "it's nothing. I just never expected it, is all." He stabbed his bacon with his fork tines, raising it up to his lips, but then hesitated. He looked nauseous, his face twisted up in a puzzling manner. "So you went there, just right before you… came here? I can…" he sniffed her, then he visibly shuddered. "I can smell it on you."

"Smell what?" she asked, wondering what on earth was wrong with him this morning.

"Sick people," he whispered.

An incredulous look rightly molded itself onto the plains of Hermione's face. "You can't be serious!" she exclaimed, catching the attention of some of her peers nearby. Ron fidgeted in discomfort. "You can _smell_ it on me? What are you, some sort of bloodhound?"

"There's no need to announce it to the public," Ron snapped. "Can't you whisper like a normal person, Hermione?"

She ignored him. Hermione smelled her sleeve, then her other sleeve, then her robes. She sighed, looking at him. "I don't smell anything, Ron." Ron didn't answer, simply looking ridiculously grave as he chewed his bacon. "What's the matter with you this morning?" she asked him. "And," said Hermione, picking off a piece from her muffin, "what happened to those flowers I told you to give to Ginny? I didn't see them on her table."

Ron stiffened and Hermione studied him closely. "I… I didn't give them to her," he said sadly. His gaze shifted from his bacon to his runny eggs.

"And why not?" she asked, crinkling her nose. "I put an anti-wilting spell on them right before I gave them to you. And Madam Pomfrey allows flowers if they aren't carnivorous, poisonous, hyperactive, or able to make any noise. Did you tell her they were Muggle flowers?"

"I…"

"Well, didn't you visit her?"

He looked uncomfortable. Then he looked at Hermione, who was waiting expectedly, from the corner of his eye. "No, see… Hermione… I don't like sick people. I-I can't _stand_ them."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "_What_?"

"I can't stand them," he admitted. "Even when I was little. One of my fears. It's undefeatable, I tell you."

"So you never visited Ginny? She's your _sister_! And what about Harry? Don't tell me you haven't visited him either!"

"Well, I asked Neville to give him his coursework for me," he said feebly, sounding ashamed of himself. "And Harry knows all about it, anyhow. Spiders and sick people. He's accepted it."

Hermione's shock wore off and she began to laugh, shaking her head. "You don't like sick people," she chuckled, "I can't believe it. How about when _you're_ sick, then? You don't like yourself either?"

"Thankfully, that hasn't happened for a while now, and I intend to keep it that way. And," he pointed out to her, "_nobody_ likes themselves when they're sick, now, do they? They'd be completely mad and twisted to. All that hacking and coughing and sweating and all that rubbish." He shuddered.

"You do know that once you have children you're going to have to get over that ridiculous fear of yours, right?"

"Which one? The spiders or sick people?"

"Both. But, ultimately, sick people. You can't just force them into a plastic bubble when they do get fevers, you know."

"Why not? That sounds like a perfectly good idea to me," he shrugged.

So she truly was completely alone on this one. With Harry bogged down with strep throat, Ron still fighting his losing battle against his fear of ill folks… all she could do, really, was to go about this her own way.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was during lunch in the Great Hall that Madam Pomfrey's helper was to be announced. There was urgency in the matter, obviously, for Hermione could plainly sense that Madam Pomfrey had grabbed at the opportunity to get help as quickly as possible – which wasn't something the poor nurse could be blamed for, of course. There was a lot of responsibility in the medical field, not to mention that some parents were fussy (Ron called them overprotective; Hermione said that they were merely involved with their child's life and that there was absolutely nothing wrong with that) and occasionally it rubbed off on the school in an unpleasing way.

Relevant to that subject, there were rumors circulating around the halls about Malfoy's father, the ever-sneering Lucius Malfoy, dropping by the school to warn Dumbledore about his "many offenses." Hermione thought it was rubbish. Ron enthusiastically agreed. Hermione didn't know whether Harry had heard it yet, but she planned to tell him when she visited the hospital wing to bring him some of his assignments. Ron had eagerly handed the job off to her after the recent discovery of his phobia, which had only been reasonable, yet she saw in his face that he was mildly abashed that he could not do such a simple thing.

Hermione had just been in the process of refilling her porridge when Dumbledore walked up to the podium. The Hall instantly quieted as he looked around with his flashing spectacles. Though the school was on grave ground now, he seemed to think little of it as she caught a glimpse of his jolly eyes. It then occurred to her that very little seemed to affect their headmaster, and she couldn't help but admire him for it.

"Good afternoon," he greeted them smilingly, "I am very happy to announce that Madam Pomfrey has come upon a decision for the spot to assist in the hospital wing."

People were bewildered. Hermione watched with an unmoving neck as her peers sent each other looks of puzzlement, very clearly wondering who in their right mind would have voluntarily signed up for the job.

"I congratulate Miss Hermione Granger for her selfless efforts!" he happily exclaimed. Their stares all pointed at her, a terse hush falling over the crowd, until the suspenseful second ticked by and they all sighed in relief, moving on with their affairs. "I only ask that Miss Granger stop by the hospital wing immediately after our current meal. Thank you for your attention."

Hermione smiled nervously as the chatter began to buzz around the vast room again, and Fred and George began to ask her that if she were to become infected, get ill, and die, whether she would oblige to giving them her numerous books so that they could try out their new device they were working on.

Perturbed, Hermione furrowed her brow. "Why? What does it do?" she asked, although she'd already had a feeling that it would have been best for all if she had just refused the urge. She had a sense that she wasn't going to like the answer.

"Oh," they both said, nonchalantly, in unison. They shrugged, their impish grins identical to each other's and the twinkles in their eyes bright. "You know, it burns things."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"An essay," breathed Hermione, settling down on the chair by Harry's bedside. He had been assigned to Parvati's bed after she had been whisked away by her parents to be taken care of at home. Parvati's parents' had been one of the fussiest, which had to be at least a little surprising for some of them. Ginny, however, when she'd last talked to her, had told her the contrary: that it was not.

Harry looked a bit tired and he was certainly pale, but she had to admit that his guise seemed better than a few days ago. Though, now, as she looked at him closely, there was something off about him. His raven brows drew up, and usually Hermione knew that he wouldn't be smiling about such a thing as getting assigned a new essay for Herbology, but with the widespread phobia going around of the hospital wing and sick people, he hadn't had very many visitors coming by. He was just gratified to see her and that she wasn't one of those who went running off from a single sneeze yards away.

"Great," he said, a bit dazedly.

Then Hermione figured out why he looked so strange.

"Oh no," she said. "Madam Pomfrey didn't—"

"She did," he confirmed, shutting his eyes tightly for a second. His glasses hiked up the bridge of his nose. "Good Merlin, she did."

"This is absurd!" Hermione exclaimed, offended by Harry's treatment. "Doesn't she know that if she gives you too many doses she could send you into _toxic shock_?"

"I tried explaining it to her," he said, still blinking. He sighed dejectedly, resting his head back again. "I told her that she'd already given me my share for the day, but she wouldn't have it. Thought I was delirious, that old cow. Said that I didn't know what I was talking about and that I was just looking for an excuse to get out of taking my medicine."

Hermione huffed, outraged.

"But if it makes you feel any better," said Harry, murmuring now, "when I have the lucky fortune of not being drugged down all morning and afternoon, she does seem a bit… out of it. She's been singing a lot. I don't know why. The song changes every day. One day it's an old hymn that I recognize because Mrs. Weasley sang it a few times over at the Burrow when she's making supper, then the other it's some woman empowerment song about not letting a man bring her down, and then the next it's about how the sky is blue… and how daisies are yellow… and how sometimes, if you look real closely, you can see the face of who you love in the clouds…"

Hermione frowned, lying back on her chair. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I think you're delirious now."

He laughed weakly. His eyes were shut. "You're quite right."

She looked concernedly at him, tucking a loose curl behind her ear as she mentally wondered if there was something not right about Madam Pomfrey these days. It wouldn't be shocking. It seemed as if Hogwarts was now the watering hole for all of the peculiarities of the world.

"How much time before you think you'll doze off?" she asked him.

"It only makes you drowsy for a bit," said Harry. "About ten minutes, I'm supposing."

"Good, ten minutes is all I need," said Hermione, straightening herself up. "I reckon, with your current stance of being daily forced out of your sobriety into drunkenness from pain-numbing potions, that you'll be cheerful to hear that I've been chosen as Madam Pomfrey's new assistant."

"Oh yes, I've heard about that. Glad to hear. Congratulations." He grinned crookedly, and Hermione smiled.

"Thank you. There's something else I also wanted to tell you. It's about Lucius Malfoy."

Harry tensed. His eyes slowly opened, looking straight at her. His face twitched for a mere moment, as if bewildered between the choice of going stoic and rigid with seriousness or to simply pass it off as something that didn't matter.

"I heard he came Tuesday morning," she said, lowering her voice. "It wasn't unusual, which is something I think you should know before you get worried. He demanded to talk to Dumbledore. There was talk of a pending request to impeach Dumbledore from the educational board, but considering that all of the schools are, indeed, suffering through the same predicament, they found it unjustified. Lucius was enraged, of course," said Hermione with a sardonic drawl.

"He's an idiot," said Harry, though she could hear the subtle yet sharp edge of his voice. His words appeared grated. "But he never does give up, does he?"

Hermione smiled a little, encouraging a bit of lightness into the mood. "You've got to admire him a little for that. The man's so intent on sacking Dumbledore that he leaps at every opportunity he sees. It's as if he's stepping on hot coals."

Harry snorted, yet Hermione's little grin prodded him to smile a little, too. Just barely, but enough. "Bad men never win," he then said, in a quiet voice. Hermione felt a prick in her heart as he said those words and stared at him as he turned his head and looked straight at her. "Remus told me that once. So did Sirius. Do you believe that? You've got an extensive memory and you read loads of books – do you remember any wars won by the bad men?"

Hermione was confused by his question. Her throat felt dry and she cast her gaze away, uncomfortable by the foreboding sense she felt throbbing in the hollow of her throat now. "I-I don't know," she murmured. "But I do believe it," she tried to say firmly. "Bad men never win."

"And why is that?" Harry asked innocently. His emerald eyes flickered away from her to the ceiling, lolling his head back towards the middle of his pillow. "Why do you think that is?"

"It's a subjective sort of thing," she told him, feeling sad as she thought about it. Was this all Harry did with his time here at the hospital wing? Contemplate about the outcome of the war, and what their chances were? "There's no sure answer." Her voice fell a bit weak at the last part. She never liked thinking about these things, but even then she found herself pondering about their circumstances and futures. She didn't have the heart to tell Harry that she didn't have the answers anymore than he did. But she got the vague gist that he already knew, somehow.

He didn't say much after that. She checked in with Madam Pomfrey, who did seem rather aglow and unusually appear as if, for the first time in her life, the singing sort who trilled on about yellow daisies and blue skies and seeing your lover's face in the clouds. This sent Hermione rather off-track, seeing the nurse's delighted face and shining complexion that she had already grown accustomed to seeing tight and stern, with her thin lips pulled down into a wrinkled frown. She told Hermione (who was distracted by the startling beacons of light in her eyes) that she was to pop by tomorrow morning for her first day, and that at the end Madam she would be handing her the schedule she'd made herself.

After some questions about the free time slots in Hermione's schedule and more inquiring about conveniences and agendas, she stepped out of Madam Pomfrey's office and walked by a dozing Harry. Hermione furrowed her brow in curiosity and confusion as she recalled the faint color that had risen from the Medi-Witch's cheeks when she had asked her if she could handle herself – be it on the off chance that she would be busy and unable to tend to her own infirmary, which was odd to Hermione – just fine all alone with a roomful of sick patients. What could Hermione do but nod along? She was too overwhelmed with the erupting abnormalities in these castle walls. Who knew their nurse would become an eccentric as well? It was almost too strange for her to digest.

But before she reached the grand oak doors of the infirmary, just paces away, she was surprised as the doors were pulled open and in strode in – with an uncanny air of superiority about him, as usual – Draco Malfoy. He stopped when he noticed her, slightly skidding in his step as if he was afraid to go any nearer to her. But as she paused for a moment, looking at him – although she knew that it would have been better for her to just walk past him to avoid any more lethal interaction with their already explosive week – with a curious yet impassive face, one blond brow quirked up at her on his colorless face. He gave her a scowl: one with no little less contempt and scorn.

Then Hermione, something clicking inside of her head, drew her eyes away from him and looked over at the bed fourth to the door. She spotted what she knew she would and looked back at him.

He knew what she'd seen. His scowl intensified.

"Why, Malfoy, I didn't know you cared," said Hermione briskly, grateful to finally latch onto something to abash the boorish Slytherin.

"Shut up, Granger," he automatically spat.

"You must be really relieved, aren't you, Malfoy? The clumps of hazardous phlegm in her throat must prevent her from emitting all that shrill simpering. Now it just makes her sound like an obtuse transvestite."

"Better than looking like a mangled beaver."

"Oh, that was clever. Have you got anymore, Quippy?"

"Oh, loads, Granger," he drawled, seething. His eyes narrowed at her. Apparently she had struck him in a sensitive spot. Hermione almost wanted to gag. Pansy Parkinson? _Really_? Sure, he was some foul-mouthed git suffering from many fascist delusions, but she thought he'd have higher standards than _her_. Pansy was an absolute _monster_. If Rita Skeeter and Severus Snape and Grendel had gotten together in some grotesque threesome and had a baby, they'd have birthed Pansy.

"But I reckon I'd better stop there. Wouldn't want to make you cry, after all. It's such a shame when you Gryffindors allow your egos to suffer. Of course, I see no reason why you'd have egos in the first place, you being the most miserable, pathetic, talent-less lot in this whole sodding castle." His lip curled in distaste. "And I haven't even gotten started on the Mudbloods just yet."

Hermione glowered at him. "Don't waste your breath. It's quite obvious what you think, what with your constant redundancy on that topic." Glaring at him, she shot him one last remark and stomped past him. "I hope Pansy hacks all over you."

And, grasping the brass handles and rapidly slipping past, she was grateful that she didn't have to hear the many colorful names he called her because she was quite sure that had she had some sort of scalpel within accessible reach she would have skinned his face with it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

At breakfast in the Great Hall the next day, she made sure to have her share of vitamin C and ended up downing three glasses of pumpkin juice because she felt awfully dehydrated. Seamus, who had been watching her, said that it was because she was nervous, and that she should consider herself real fortunate because when he got nervous, he got itchy. After this share of information, he simply nodded his head at her, as if it was something utmost vital to be considered.

"I don't think I'm nervous," Hermione said, her brows corrugated.

Seamus laughed in what seemed like a scoff and an unbelieving chuckle mashed together. He crammed a piece of bacon inside his mouth. "Oh, you are."

Hermione simply looked at him as if he was barmy, keeping back her question of how he could possibly know that with no other comprehensible proof besides her craving for pumpkin juice.

"Don't be nervous, Hermione," Ron said in a lazy drawl. "If you're nervous, that means you aren't calm, and when you aren't calm and concentrating, you'll enact a weak immunity charm, and you'll get infected." He patted her arm. "I'm only telling you this because don't expect me to bring you any of your coursework if you get ill. I'm not stepping within one yard of that place."

"I wasn't expecting anything," snapped Hermione.

Ron rose up his hands in a fashion that was supposed to hint off that it wasn't his fault. Hermione wasn't surprised. Nothing was Ron's fault. He'd broken one of Neville's remembralls two weeks ago and even then it wasn't his fault. He said it was the floor's fault, because it had fallen on it, and if it hadn't been so hard, then it wouldn't have broken. She hadn't even gone into her "If you had been studying like I'd told you two _five times_ you wouldn't have broken it" spiel. The look Neville had given him then, enlarged retinas with an open mouth and all, had been priceless.

"I'm _not_ nervous," Hermione clarified. "Why would I be?"

"Because you're going to be stepping into a festering pool of highly contagious germs every single day," said Fred.

Ron shuddered. "Stop it, Fred. I'm eating."

"What's your point? You're always eating," Fred replied. George nodded solemnly in confirmation, and Seamus sniggered.

"It's a miracle you're not fat," George said.

"Divine intervention, we call it," said the other twin.

"Then again, there are two kinds of fat people. Fat people who are physically fat, and fat people who are fat _inside_. You're the second kind."

"Funny, you two are pricks inside _and_ outside," snapped Ron. "I reckon you win that one."

"Shut up and eat your cake, Ronald."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Walking to the hospital wing in a complacently soundless corridor (she'd left the Great Hall early and most of them were willing to brave the snowy albeit tricky weather for a chance to escape to Hogsmeade), Hermione really did find that she disagreed with Seamus. She didn't feel nervous at all. Of course, there was an uncomfortable shifting in her stomach, but it wasn't the feeling she normally associated with apprehension. She was just intimidated at the fact of having to tend to her peers and knowing that, more often than not, they would be counting on her to prod them to better health. Whether they liked it or not.

The first thing she decided to do was talk to Madam Pomfrey about her distribution of the numbing potions Snape concocted every week. Even a blind man could see that she was going overboard. But the matter of the fact was, she didn't even know why she was overdoing it. Their nurse was one of the best in the whole of Great Britain. She knew everything there was to know about medicine. She was fussy about doses and finically particular about how things were carried out. So why was it that she seemed all too keen on getting Harry drunk on tonics? Something seemed off there when she thought about it.

She didn't think it was anything sinister. Just perhaps that Madam Pomfrey had some glitches she had to work out. Everyone had them, after all. It would only be human.

When she walked into the hospital wing, it was silent except for a few people rustling in their beds. She grinned when she saw that Ginny was awake, who in return raised her brows at her because she was preoccupied with sipping from her glass. Hoping that Madam Pomfrey wasn't going to explode out of her doors any second now, Hermione spun on her heel and found herself sitting down by the Weasley's bedside.

She smiled lazily as she set it back down on her side table. Hermione was glad to see that some of her color was returning now, which was a clue that she was getting better. Hermione looked across to where Harry was, but he was still asleep.

"I heard about you getting the spot," Ginny weakly nudged her. Her voice was still a bit hoarse. "Congratulations. Of course, it'd only be a crime if you didn't get it. Not that everyone else is ill equipped. It's just that nobody else really had their wits about them to sign up, am I right?"

"Yes," said Hermione, taken aback. "Your intuition is uncanny, Ginny."

The Weasley smiled modestly, then shrugged as she hiked up her covers. "No, it isn't that. It's just that I've been keeping tabs on who comes in here and who goes out. Unfortunately, I wasn't awake when you came in, but Madam Pomfrey raved all about you afterwards. And nobody else I know of stepped a toe within this place…" Ginny's brows wrinkled in thought. "Although, there was that one bloke…"

Hermione's interest was piqued. She remembered that on the top of the sign-in sheet someone had already signed in, but blotted it all out. "Oh?"

"Yeah," she replied. "Although, I can never be sure, because he came in right after Madam Pomfrey fed me some tonic" – Hermione sighed at this – "and that stuff really lugs me down like you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, I believe you," Hermione said dryly.

"Anyhow, how are things?" said Ginny keenly. "I've been out of the loop for so long. All of the gossip I get around here is who got sent home and who almost did. And that isn't even the juicy stuff." She shifted on her bed as she began to grumble. "That's probably why I think I'm about to go out of my mind. Lack of social interaction. The cowards," she bitterly mumbled.

"You're quite right," she agreed. "You'd think that it was the plague."

Ginny looked at her expectedly. "Well? How are things?" Her eyes were bright and eager.

"Ginny," sighed Hermione, "you _know_ I'm probably the worst person to ask about all that gossiping rubbish. Why would they tell _me_? I'm not exactly the most affable person they'd consider first to share sadistically juicy news with." She gave her a look. "You know that."

Ginny rolled her eyes, seeming exasperated with Hermione. "Oh, Hermione, you're so daft, do you know that? It doesn't matter if they tell you or not. What matters is that you _overhear_ things – in the halls, in class, in the Hall. And don't tell me you don't overhear things. Only a deaf person doesn't overhear things."

"All right," Hermione said, giving up. "Lucius Malfoy popped by the school to try and sack Dumbledore again. Seamus has got some new bonny lass he met in Hogsmeade last week. Neville lost us thirty House points so far. And…" Hermione couldn't quite remember anything else. She'd _told_ Ginny she was useless at these things. Then a slow smile began to creep across her face as she stared dead straight at her friend. "Yesterday I ran into Draco Malfoy exiting the infirmary."

Ginny gaped. "Malfoy? In here?"

Hermione, quite satisfied with herself, nodded haughtily. "Guess who he was here for? Pansy."

She made a face that Hermione felt like making as well. "Pansy?" She gagged. "Oh Merlin! I guess blood does win over beauty, eh?"

She nodded, laughing. "It's quite sad."

"Truly."

"What do you think he's doing with her?"

"Don't care, really. Oh, I just thought of this: what would happen if they reproduced? Oh, heavens – think of the walking abominations!"

"Don't want to. I think my head would explode."

"Put one and one together and you get hell."

"Worse."

"True."

"Well, that's just dandy you think that, Granger, but I think you and Weasel's chances of reproducing disfigured creatures would be a lot more ghastly," said a haughty, superior voice, and Hermione's neck snapped up, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she spotted Draco Malfoy standing by the door, looking at her with the most hateful sneer she'd ever seen. Instantly she felt an aggressive gurgling inside her stomach, almost making her queasy. She could feel the dread creeping over her and Ginny stiffen beside her in her sheets, her face flushing a bright siren red.

"Funny how you manage to sink lower and lower every time I see you, Mudblood. Pretending to act so chivalrous and straight-laced – and then engaging in gossip? What are the rest of your peers going to say once they hear this? I shudder to think."

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped, only because she could think of nothing else to say. She felt humiliated and ashamed – to be caught by Draco Malfoy! They hadn't heard him come in at all. Now she was certain she'd never hear the end of it; he'd hold it against her forever.

"Leave us alone, Malfoy," she heard Ginny say beside her, her eyes narrowing. "We were just talking."

And then he began to walk towards them, and Hermione suddenly began to panic for some strange reason completely unknown to her. Probably because she remembered all of the rumors over the summer about how volatile he had become. So she discreetly glanced around, desperately looking at Madam Pomfrey's office door in some silent prayer, but somehow knowing that the nurse had left to do some errand and that they were all alone. All of the other patients surrounding them could not help them even if they did manage to wake up before Malfoy hurled a hex at them; they were unarmed, and were too week.

Hermione slipped a hand inside her robes, but realized, with the color draining from her face, that she'd forgotten her wand.

He walked right up to Hermione, so close that she felt her entire body tense, her jaw clamping down hard inside her mouth. She kept her eyes steadily on him, not wanting to let him know that he made her nervous. His sneering, narrow face and ash-blond hair completely dominated her peripheral vision now, the close proximity of his lean but tall stature disturbing her.

"If you've got something to say to me, Muggle, say it to my face," he hissed at her.

"I would, if you weren't so bloody ugly," she found herself spitting.

His eyes narrowed at her. But he said nothing. Not another Mudblood remark, or anything about her physical appearance. Nothing.

"This is a warning. Next time you won't be so lucky. Mudblood."

Ah, so there it was.

"_Pleasure_," Hermione retorted with venom.

Then, with one last foul word from his foul mouth, he turned around and walked away, slamming the hospital wing's doors, although not doing a very good job since none of the sleeping bodies jerked awake. Hermione didn't move from her spot, still annoyed with her encounter with him, even when she felt Ginny moving around beside her.

"Well. That was interesting."

"That was Malfoy."

"That's why it's so interesting." She paused. "You ever going to tell me whatever happened at that detention of yours that made everything so tense between you?"

Hermione sighed, a deep sigh that rattled her ribcage. "No. Thing is, I'm not even sure if it happened anymore."

But it was quite obvious she was lying. And it was quite obvious that Ginny didn't believe her.


End file.
